


The Things He's Carried

by dogpoet



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-28 18:50:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogpoet/pseuds/dogpoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Luggage and smelling salts, and things more ordinary.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things He's Carried

**Author's Note:**

> > Beta by [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/simoneallen/profile)[**simoneallen**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/simoneallen/)

He began by carrying his name, ‘supplanter’. He carried the unfortunate shape of his face. He carried buttons and toy cars, rocks and leaves, chewing gum and sweets. He carried bits of string and coins he was saving. He carried a rucksack full of books. He carried cheese sandwiches and apples. He carried the cat to the barn for company. He carried a map of stars. He carried the sound of music.

He carried a tiny bible, the print shrunk to illegibility, but he didn’t need to see to remember. He carried dog-eared copies of Shelley and Housman, Keats and Donne. He carried the words of men, their lines, holy and pagan, echoing in his mind as he ran through the dim and ghostly woods of Crevecoeur. He carried the Word of God inside himself: thou shalt not thou shalt thou shalt not lie with mankind as with womankind it is an abomination. He carried guilt and sin and shame, the burden of the past, and the weight of the world on his bony shoulders.

He has carried tea trays and pills. He carried baskets of laundry, his aunt’s cigarettes, her faith and hope when she lost them. He carried the expression she wore when she saw God before dying. All things are full of weariness beyond uttering. He carried the image of his mother and the voice of his father. Thou shalt not thou shalt thou shalt not. Honour thy mother and thy father.

He has carried and he has carried.

He once carried a black felt marker, whose chemical scent stung his nostrils as he formed the letters L and W on a rectangle of stiff paper. He carried luggage and smelling salts, and things more ordinary: glasses, handkerchiefs, keys, cigarettes, lighters, matches, pens, and notepads, always ready to take down his inspector’s words, or to write words for him if that’s what he needed.

Somewhere he lost his bible. Sometimes he finds it again. There is a time to keep and a time to cast away.

He carries pounds for their pints and their coffees. He carries his phone, which is guide and lifeline, connecting him to Lewis when they aren’t together. He carries evidence bags and latex gloves, boxes of books found at crime scenes, folded up copies of _Loaded_ , business cards from psychics, photos of victims and suspects. He carries the lives of men in his hands. He carries bottles of wine, pints of beer, Yorkie bars, and containers of takeaway. He carries a marriage bed. He likes to think he can carry a joke: _toad in the hole, spotted dick_. He carries guitar picks and his baby, lost and found. He carries an iPod, which connects him to Lewis when they are side by side.

He carries and he carries.

He carries the things he’s said. He carries the things he’s seen: the dead and the dying, bodies and bones, fingers and skulls. He carries the smells, too. He will forever carry a little girl in a cistern, and he will forever carry Will McEwan. He will carry them.

He carries drowning maidens from swimming pools, just as he was carried, out of fire, out of death and into life, out of the past and into the present, the bells of Oxford ringing, his heart singing in the late afternoon sun outside the scarred windows of the station, Lewis beside him, saying: “You look thoughtful, James. Talk it through over a pint?”

The things he carries, God is in them all.

 _the end_


End file.
